


don't hold a glass over the flame

by beverytender



Series: the Mummy AU [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Smut, The Mummy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beverytender/pseuds/beverytender
Summary: They don't even get that one night in a hotel. Not the way Arya wanted to give it to him, anyways.





	don't hold a glass over the flame

They don't even get that one night in a hotel. Not the way Arya wanted to give it to him, anyways - normalcy, no talk of this search at all, just a night like one of those first blissful ones after the wall where she just made him laugh and let him hold her.

Instead Gendry's shaking her awake from another dream all of 2 hours after she's drifted to sleep next to him, panic on his face. Panic like she hadn’t even seen when they were facing the end of the world, and she can’t even comfort him, because it matches hers. 

"I saw - I lost you, I -" she gasps, unable to even start to catch her breath till she's reached out, got her fingertips against his heartbeat. The second she’s made contact, he’s swept her up, pressing her as close to his chest as he can, fingers in her hair to tuck her head against his neck, mouth against her temple. 

“No, love, no. I’m right here, and we’re alright. I’m here.” His voice is shaking, and she wants to cry. She couldn’t take it, if she lost him, she really couldn’t. No one could know her like he does, no one. She’d destroy anyone who tried, because how could they ever match him? How, when she knows he’s clinging to her half so that she doesn’t have to cling to him because he knows she hates to feel weak, needy? How, when she knows he’s still reassuring, still talking, so that she doesn’t have to speak at all?

Eventually, eventually she can breathe again, and she interrupts him, puts her hand on his jaw and turns his head to press her mouth hard against his, like the very first time she did, when it was her death she was staring down. Here, too, he gives her exactly what she needs, both his hands tangled in her hair to keep her close while he kisses her so thoroughly that she can’t doubt that he’s present, alive, and so very hers. Even when he stops for breath, he stays so close she can feel every exhale, can feel him shape the words as he speaks, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

She shakes her head, emphatic, “No. 

...Maybe. 

After.” She ends there, the contradictions having clawed their way from her throat. 

“After?” He asks, meeting her eyes, thumbs stroking over her cheeks, so serious.

“Touch me,” she whispers, shifting so she’s on her knees over his lap, shivering as his gaze trickles down slowly to her lips, down her neck, over her collarbones, “I want to feel you. On me. Everywhere,” she runs her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly until he presses closer, nuzzling at the very edge of her nightgown, “touch me. Fuck me. Please, I-”

He doesn’t make her ask again. He never does, especially not on the occasions she says please, which are not as rare as most people who knew her would believe. She loves it, the look in his eyes when she asks him for anything, really, her boy, so pleased to provide, so overjoyed to be wanted. 

He kisses her again, greedy this time, tugging at her bottom lip with his teeth ‘til she gasps his name and shoves him, knocking him flat on his back in the bed. There’s nothing gentle in her hands now. He takes the cue perfectly, tugs her down after him and doesn’t bother with yanking off her nightgown before he rolls them over, just pulls it up and presses his thigh between hers. She can feel the weight of him more than he usually lets her, and between the urgency, the adrenaline, and that feeling, it invokes the memory of their wedding night so strongly that she has to wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s back there too. She didn’t think she’d ever like feeling small, ever like being held like that, but that night, feeling so surrounded by him - she’d tried, but she hadn’t been able to explain it properly. It didn’t matter, he knew. She’d had plenty of trouble throughout her life, getting people to understand her, but not him, not from the start. 

She feels needy, already, and this variety, she doesn’t mind. Not when it makes his eyes go so dark, not when it feels like his hands are everywhere at once, running up her sides to work her nightgown up higher, tugging her knee up so he can press more insistently between her legs, and then he slows down and she could kick him, if - oh, if - 

He presses his mouth to her heartbeat, to her collarbone, to her pulse, and then to her mouth, deep and consuming and making her melt into the pillows. Once she’s settled, content to just lay there and let him love her as slow as he’d like, he pulls away. He smiles at her small sound of protest, and he starts again, sitting back on his knees. He slips his hand under her back, shifting her enough to slip her nightgown over her head, and then he sits back and looks at her, bare in front of him. If he’s surprised she didn’t put her underwear back on after they first got into the room, it doesn’t show in his face, just want. She knows what he’s thinking, she can see it in his eyes, that he’s about to do his damndest to wear her out, leave her without a thought in her mind, and the anticipation is familiar, comforting. She smirks at him, and she can see the familiarity soften the set of his shoulders some too, and then she stretches, slow, and he moves again, instantaneous like she’s pulling strings. Gods, she loves him. 

He shakes his head at her smirk, ghosting his fingertips up from her ankles to her thighs, and then his touch becomes more firm as he spreads her legs apart. All he’s done is tease, really, but she’s wet as if he has had his hands on her properly. She squirms, it doesn’t bother her like it used to, to just be gazed at, but she’s had quite enough of it now, and if he doesn’t - 

He starts tugging off his own pajamas as soon as she puts her hands on her own skin. By the time her fingers are at her belly button, he’s as naked as she is. He stretches over her again, propped up on one elbow while he brushes her hands away. He nuzzles at the skin between her breasts, and she’s a second from yanking at his hair till he does something real. Thank the gods he does, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin there and rocking his hips against her. His free hand comes up to squeeze at one breast, little rougher than he usually is, while he flicks his tongue over her nipple on the other side, lighter than usual, and hells, that’s almost more maddening. She puts a hand to the top of his head and pushes, “fuck’s sake, Gen-”

He chuckles but he’s good at following direction, and it’s the matter of a few heartbeats before his head is between her legs, fingers spreading her open. Blissfully this he does not do teasingly. He puts his mouth to her like he’s waited an age for it, like he’d cease to be if he couldn’t taste her - words he’s whispered in her ear before. He puts his tongue against her, humming against her clit, and she is lost to it in moments, her back arching off the bed before he’s even got his fingers inside her. He doesn’t let her come down, pressing two fingers into before she’s even collapsed back into the bed. She can’t say if it’s because she hadn’t even gotten to the aftershocks yet, or how rough he’s curling his fingers inside but she can’t - she can’t - she gasps, broken, “oh, fuck - fuck -”

She can feel her throat lock up, her fingers fisted so tightly in his hair that it must hurt, and then - oh.

She can’t remember ever feeling so light in her life. He runs his hands so gentle back up her body and kisses her, smiling against her mouth when the most she can do is keep breathing against his.

When she feels willing - able - to open her eyes again, not sure at all that she hadn’t fallen asleep for a few minutes, Gendry has stretched out beside her. He’s gazing at her again, the picture of contentment so long as you don’t look too far down, and she’s a little bit bugged by it.

Or she would be, if she could think clearly yet.

“Is that all you’ve got?” She’s aiming for ‘superior indifference’ but really she just sounds high.

He manages not to laugh, which she wouldn’t have blamed him for, but he doesn’t do more than kiss her again, which she does blame him for. She doesn’t feel like moving at all yet but, for him, she supposes she’ll make herself.

For herself, too. She wants him inside her. She’d said that, hadn’t she? He’s just being rude, making her do any work now.

Gods, she even sounds high in her own head.

She sits up, eventually, twisting to straddle him, and she still feels satisfied, really she does, but the feel of him between her thighs, warm and hard and the look on his face…

No, she’s not satisfied yet.

He goes to sit up too, and she stops him, shakes her head and leaves her hand pressed to his chest. She lifts herself up on her knees just enough to wrap her other hand around his cock and he groans, closes his eyes. After a moment of stroking over him, slow and steady, he reaches for her, and she bats his hands away. “Just watch.”

She raises up higher to get him against her, and he still hasn’t opened his eyes, so she holds him there, scratching her nails over his chest until he does. Then - finally - she sinks down over him, and how she manages to do that slowly, she hasn’t the slightest. She’s not sure either of them inhale again until she’s full of him. 

She can’t bring herself to fuck him properly, feeling very much desperate to keep him inside her now she’s got them here. Half hoping he’ll flip them and take over and half very much hoping he won’t, she ruts against him instead, rocking her hips over his.

He groans her name, tone harsh and aching, and just the sound of it makes her moan, makes her bend and nip at his neck.

“Please,” she murmurs, clenching ‘round him as best, as tight as she can, and he groans her name again. She can’t be sure if he understood, or if he just doesn’t want to separate either, but his hands curl around her hips and he holds her steady, bucks up into her and she yelps into his neck. She doesn’t even need his fingers on her again, the sensitivity and the closeness and his sounds serve to finish her off again, quick and by no measuring she’s capable of any weaker than the first two times he made her come tonight. She sobs, just once against his neck, when she feels the warm wet rush of him inside her, feels his grasp loosen.

She doesn’t even know he’s registered that til a moment later.

“Sweetheart -” the concern in his voice, when he’s not even caught his breath yet, almost breaks her again. 

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” she reassures, and it’s true, only, “Just - don’t let go yet, don’t move yet.”

“Alright.” He tugs the blanket up over them, wraps both arms around her beneath it, skin to skin. He’ll shift her in a few moments, she knows him, gentler than anyone would expect, wipe them both clean, as careful and quietly as he can. She’s let him think she slept through it a few times, this ritual - seemed to satisfy something in him - but it’s the most care she can ever remember anyone taking of her, and she hopes to never miss a second.

She’ll tell him about the dream in the morning, she thinks. Or not. She’ll mind it again tomorrow, but right now - right now it doesn’t seem to hold any importance at all.


End file.
